


Theology

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank didn't wear a cross anymore; he wore his dog tags instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theology

**Author's Note:**

> For 31_days. Prompt: prayer must never be answered.

There was a certain method to a military man that could never be bred out of him.

 

Matt had no experience firsthand, of course, but he recognized enough of that in Frank Castle to be impressed. He was allowed entry to (dragged into, more like) one of what must have been countless safe houses, and the sense of order about it startled Matt somewhat.

 

Frank was still sleeping. How deeply unconscious he was both surprised and flattered Matt, who knew Frank was trained to snap alert at the second of any threat. He must have trusted Matt enough to not view him as a threat – hell, trusting him enough to bring him here was a significant gesture in itself.

 

Matt shoved that thought aside; it was too treacherous to linger on.

 

Instead, he busied himself with studying the space around him. Unlike Frank, he was wide awake, and that was his nerves and his senses to blame. A new environment was always difficult to relax in right away, when there were so many unfamiliar scents and sounds to adjust to.

 

Matt made a mental map. Six paces from Frank's bed to the door. Twenty paces from one side of the room to the other. The south side had the bathroom. Against the north wall was the lowly buzzing mini-fridge (likely crammed with booze and easy medical fixes). Against the east was desk with a humming laptop and a stack of books – somewhere was the suspicious but unexpected scent of blood. The books smelled much more pleasant, like old parchment and ink, and he picked one up curiously. This wasn't printed ink; it was penmanship. It was slight, but a lifetime in a law firm allowed Matt to know the difference.

 

Matt opened the book and ran his bare hand across the page. Writing. Frank's writing. He moved too fast to catch more than a few words: the date, familiar names from obituaries, and cold, dark narration.

 

Matt snapped the journal shut quickly. Even his superficial touch seemed to betray too much, and he immediately regretted it. He couldn't read Frank's thoughts like that – even tempting as it was.

 

Did he write about Matt at all? Probably. It likely wasn't anything he wanted to hear.

 

His lips quirked a little, and Matt flipped the book to a fresh page. Skimming his hand across the desk, he found a pen and began to write.

 

_You shouldn't leave this sitting out. You'd think it was an invitation._

 

Matt paused a moment, then scribbled underneath it.

 

_You better not write about me in here._

 

He closed the journal again and put it back in place. Stepping away, Matt turned back towards the bed. To his surprise, Frank stilled seemed fast asleep. Matt reached down, touched his face, and Frank grunted but otherwise did not stir. Amazed, Matt shook his head and let his hand wander down Frank's densely muscled body.

 

Frank was a road map of scars. Careful not to wake him, Matt slid his hand across Frank's chest, feeling it rise and fall with his steady breathing. Frank didn't seem to have one inch of himself that had been spared some kind of abuse.

 

The most interesting mark on him, though, was something else entirely.

 

The metal of the dog tags was warmed by the heat of Frank's skin. Matt's fingers idly skimmed the curls of coarse hair on Frank's chest when he plucked the tag up – and it was only one tag.

 

His thumb brushed across the worn metal: The first line was his surname (Castiglione then). The second was his first and middle initial (Francis D.). Beneath that was his service number. Beneath that was his blood type and his social security number. Beneath that was his religion.

 

A frown formed on Matt's lips as his thumb retraced that final line. Catholic.

 

Frank Castle hadn't been Francis Castiglione for a long time, and he hadn't been a Catholic for even longer. He had given up on God and prayer perhaps even before Vietnam. Matt didn't know for sure; Frank didn't talk about those things. He certainly didn't talk about the war, and Matt didn't ask – he knew better than that.

 

Frank didn't wear a cross anymore; he wore his dog tags instead. That was his more devoted cause. Matt didn't want to imagine what Frank's prayers would have been like – either way, they were never answered.

 

There had been one case where Matt defended a soldier, and like Frank, he had been to Vietnam. While it had little to do with the case, he still told Matt a few things about it. It was likely a nervous habit, a sort of stress relief, and he explained to Matt about his dog tags. _You wear one around your neck, see,_ he described, _but the other's in your boot. So, you know, if you're blown to kingdom come and lose your top, they can still tell one wasted sack of shit from another._

 

The funny thing was, he told Matt, that he never lost his head; he lost a leg, though – and it was the one with his dog tag in the boot.

 

Matt wasn't sure how that was funny.

 

Almost self consciously, Matt touched his own neck, finding the thin gold chain around it. He wouldn't have even been wearing his crucifix at all if Frank hadn't grabbed him on such a wild impulse. It wasn't as if they had ever sat down and made rules for these transgressions, but finding Frank waiting for him at the steps of a courthouse had been the last thing Matt expected.

 

“Walk and talk,” was all Frank said, and Matt was left stupidly gawking towards the sound of his retreating footsteps.

 

Quite simply, Frank usually dealt with Daredevil and not Matt Murdock. To Frank, there was likely little difference between the two, since he never had patience for the customs of the costumed crowd. Matt wouldn't have minded, given the exposure of his identity, but there was a difference between the Punisher and Daredevil fighting on some empty rooftop, and Frank Castle and Matt Murdock taking a stroll in broad daylight.

 

Strange as it was, Frank wasn't recognized all that often by his face. Even without a mask, the Punisher could leisurely wander in New York without being tackled to the ground. Even tall and imposing as he was, he simply was very good at blending in. That was a soldier's job, Matt supposed. Frank had a handsome face – as much as Matt could discern such a thing – but he wasn't too terribly unique to be identified. To be blunt, people didn't remember the Punisher's face; they remembered the skull.

 

“Why do you do that?” muttered Frank, referring to the rhythmic tap of Matt's cane sweeping out in front of him.

 

“You know why,” he said, but he elaborated anyway. “There's people; I have to save what little self image I have left.” Matt took a moment, before he offered. “If you give me your shoulder I wouldn't need it as much.”

 

Frank made a sound, a small affirmative 'mh' which was barely audible at all, but Matt knew it as consent. He rested his hand on one broad shoulder, and let Frank weave through the crowd for them. Dodging every question Matt asked, Frank led them here, and what happened next was dizzying and powerful – and also very dangerous.

 

This was incredibly different from anything he and Frank had indulged before. Then, Matt could have blamed adrenaline or found several excuses for his clouded judgment, but here... this was deliberated and incredibly intimate. Frank had been slow, purposeful, unlike before when he barely found the patience to strip Matt enough to fuck him. Hell, he even took the time to painstakingly untie the complicated lacing of his combat boots.

 

The thought gave Matt pause. He moved around to the foot of the bed, and next to the messy pile of discarded clothing were Matt's dress shoes and Frank's boots. The combination of the two must have looked ridiculous.

 

Bending down, Matt checked both boots. He didn't find it in the right, but in the left his hand reached inside and found the prize: the second dog tag.

 

_Castiglione_

_Francis D._

_Catholic._

 

These were his markers, and not one of these things were true of Frank anymore. These were the marks of his old name and his old religion. Yet... yet he still carried that with him. It couldn't be simply habitual for habit's sake. Frank did not cling to nostalgia. He still felt it was important; if he didn't, he wouldn't leave this as the symbol of his identification.

 

On a stupid impulse, Matt reached up and snapped the chain from his neck. He threaded the thin gold around the laces of Frank's boots and tucked the crucifix on the inside, hiding it away behind the tongue. He couldn't say what made him do it, but it felt right somehow – though at the same time he felt stupidly naïve for it.

 

That done, he climbed back into bed with Frank, cupping his hand over the remaining tag that rested around Frank's neck.

 

When he woke up alone, he wasn't surprised. He knew that Frank would never use this safe house again now that Matt was aware of its location; everything of value was likely cleared out already. Matt couldn't hear the computer humming or smell the ammunition. Matt was shocked that he slept through that – but then again, Frank had slept through Matt's own explorations.

 

He used the shower (Frank was kind enough to leave a towel at least) and reclaimed his clothing. His suit would be terribly wrinkled now, but he had no one to blame except for himself. He dressed methodically, deciding to forgo his tie, and when he moved to tuck it into his jacket pocket, what he found caused him to still.

 

His pocket was already full.

 

Matt reached inside, pulling out a few folded pieces of paper. That same smell as before: parchment and ink.

 

Unfolding them with unsteady hands, Matt began to read. The first he recognized; it was his own writing after all: the message that he had left Frank last night – and underneath Frank had added his own note.

 

_What if I do?_

 

Bastard.

 

Then, underneath that, there was a smaller scroll, and it caused Matt's eyes to widen.

 

_Are you praying for me?_

 

Scowling, Matt folded the paper up again, refusing to admit that he was flustered. No, that was ridiculous; there was no point in praying for Frank Castle. It would never be answered if he did – mostly because Matt didn't know what he was praying _for_ exactly. His immortal soul? Frank had tallied up far too much of a score for that to be redeemed. Yet...

 

There was another piece of paper beneath the first, and Matt hesitated in touching it. Tentatively skimming his fingers over the top line, Matt went still. This was a proper journal entry, starting with the date – and it was one Matt knew. This was the night after he and Frank first...

 

Shakily, Matt ran his hand over the page. The motion was too quick and unsteady to read it all, but he caught enough words to make himself dizzy: _that night trial for the murderer of and then Murdock naïve bullshit stronger hits my side his hands his mouth eyes his eyes don't move and I'm top of him kiss him and he bites me Daredevil Murdock he moans his body shakes Murdock Matt Murdock--_

 

Letting out a ragged exhale, he crumpled the paper in his hand, crunching it down into a ball and shoving in back into his jacket pocket. He was shaking again, and he felt barely coordinated enough to finish dressing himself. He fumbled in reaching for his shoes, knocking them over as he did, and that was when he heard it: something metal clattered against the floor. Before he even reached out, Matt knew what it was.

 

With an unsteady hand, Matt closed his fingers around the cool, familiar metal of the single dog tag that Frank had left inside his shoe.

 

He finished dressing, slipping into his shoes and wearing the chain around his neck. Tucking it under his shirt, the metal felt cold against his skin, but his body would warm it soon enough.

 

This was the only religion Frank had left, and Matt was its only theologist.


End file.
